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Warwick Poet Laureate 2009 - 2010

We are delighted that Marg Roberts from Leamington Spa has been crowned Poet Laureate.

Marg Roberts has lived in Warwickshire for most of her married life. She worked in the Probation Service before obtaining a Creative Writing certificate (1998), during which she discovered the pleasure of writing and reading poetry. She reads poems for a variety of reasons. For their sounds, because they make her laugh, for their emotion, and because each reading reveals another level of meaning. She writes poems to describe experiences, whether personal or imagined.

She has been a member of Cannon Poets (Birmingham) for several years and some of her poems have been published in local small presses. She enjoys writing short stories and novels. She has just completed an MA in Creative Writing and is working on a novel, ‘Wrestling with Angels’. She relaxes by walking, cycling and meeting family and friends.

It floated

on grains of sandas if she would reclaim it before the next gust of wind

when her little pink scarf floated across the sand pitI called her name as if she would leap from her burial chamber

when I called, ‘Violet’, the wind carried it as his ownas if he’d prised her from her swing, slide and castle

when the wind carried her name, I slippedfrom garden to housefrom house to fieldsfrom fields to stream

as if, I was consumed

when I burned through our househer houseas if she were playing peek-a-booher face leapt at me among the cinders

they found herface down in the sands of the streampink wellies weighted with water

Forgotten hero

Passengers on the 67 bustle passed himLast off, the man steps down to the pavement in front of Bootsits windows sparkling with tinsel trees

He hobbleshis mouth as dry as cotton woolHe stretches out his arms towards the lightsred and green, as shoppers surge across Warwick Streetleaving him on the cornerdazzled

The star-strung door to HSBC is shut to himHe stumbles outside the gold awning of Chinese curesgazes at Santa’s sledgebedecked with books and candles in Waterstones’ cavern

He swerves, (remembers the scrum) unseen round the holly-wreathed, smokers’ tables outside Starbucksunder the halogen glisten, the glitz of baublesin the Royal Priors

Out of breath he leans on the balustradeOf the ice-cream wagonHe licks his lips in anticipation of raspberry dipFumbles in pocket holes for lost coins

Down the escalator he movesdown to longed-for iced mince piespiled on Drucker’s barHe stares beyond the crib and Santa’s grovein Hammell’s displayto the darkness beyond

On Regent Street he searches his walletFinds only black and white photosDredges his memoryfor people he can’t recall

Perspective

Your mother is fine!

Is she asking for me?Does she wonder when my sister will be back from Romemy brother from the Scilly Islesremember what she had for breakfast?Has she thrown away her spill proof cup, her plate with the special edge?Has she jumped from her wheelchairinsisted her hair is cut and permeddemanded the keys to the bungalow in Bainton Closefound her pursephoned my dadasked him why she isn’t living at home?